1 Death on Canvas

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “I don’t mind,” she insisted. “It’ll be fun.” Smiling to herself, she realized she meant it. In fact, she felt a little skip in her step at the thought of having something substantial she could help with, instead of sitting by helplessly and worrying about her Dad’s health. She gave the heavy coveralls a shake. “And these’ll do fine.”

  “Okay, okay. But not unless you sit and have a good breakfast before you start.”

  She wasn’t hungry, but she hesitated. She knew he didn’t feel up to cooking for himself. And he still didn’t have his appetite back. He’d skip eating unless she made him a meal and watched him chow down.

  “That’s a great idea. I’m hungry as heck for bacon and eggs. But I’m only fixing them if you’ll eat, too.” She draped the coveralls over the back of a chair, went to the kitchen and took a frying pan off the hanging pot rack. Humming, Adele bustled around the cheerful room, pulling a loaf of sourdough from the wooden bread box and setting out ingredients for French toast, scrambled eggs and bacon. Soon, the mouthwatering smell of frying bacon made her glad she’d decided to postpone the fieldwork and cook. She plopped the French toast into another pan, and while it sizzled, she quickly packed drinks and snacks into a cooler to take along in the tractor.

  Half an hour later, she sat at the kitchen table across from her father. He looked better. The hot breakfast had been a good idea. They argued too much lately—especially about her choice of boyfriends—and sharing a companionable breakfast took the edge off the irritation they felt toward each other.

  She tried to cut him some slack, knowing the chemo made him cranky as an old grizzly, but he seemed to be mighty opinionated about college. About girls who married too young. About jobs. The boredom of the snack shop job she’d tried before landing the position at the library proved he was right about that job. College was a good idea. She shivered inwardly. Not marriage. Not at nineteen. She wasn’t ready, even though at first it had sounded like fun to have her own place. If she ever did get married, she hoped it would be because she couldn’t be happy without one specific man. A man. Not a boy. And right now, she was pretty sure she was the only adult in her relationship even though her boyfriend had four years on her. She stood and began clearing the table.

  When her father got sick, she’d grown up a little—actually, a lot—learning how easy it was to want to take care of someone you loved, but how hard it was to do it. It must be even harder to take care of kids, she mused. She didn’t want to give her dad the satisfaction of telling him he’d been right all along, though. Grinning, she guessed it all broke down to wanting to argue for the sake of stating her own mind, letting him know she was all grown up. Making her own decisions.

  “What are you smiling at, girl? Thinking of that damn kid, I’ll bet. That engagement ring he offered you had a diamond about the size of a pinhead. You know what that fellow has most of, don’tcha?”

  “No, but I’ll bet you’re going to tell me,” she said in a combative tone, egging him on. She chewed her bottom lip. Heck, that brought a little color to his cheeks. I need to remember he’s been sick. Stomp on my tongue a little. Besides, he’s a lot older than my friend’s folks. Old enough to be my grandpa instead of my dad. Man, Dom and I must have been the classic afterthoughts.

  “Bull. That man is full of it. Pure bull. Never heard the like.” He guffawed, the laugh ending in a short cough. “Why, he’s full of more bull than old Johnson’s big Aberdeen Angus. And he’s too old for you, that’s for sure.”

  Adele put the last plate in the dishwasher and grabbed the coveralls, slipping the baggy legs over her jeans. It was a bit nippy out and the heater in the cab of the tractor wasn’t working. She reached into the hall closet again to take one of Berg’s blue knit caps off the shelf.

  “You could be right, Dad.” Tucking her hair under the hat, she grabbed the cooler, pecked the surprised man on the cheek and headed out the door. “Love you!” she called over her shoulder.

  Partway to the tractor she heard the door to the house open and Berg call after her, “I love you too, Addy!”

  ___

  “Ugh.” She’d forgotten how mind-numbingly boring seeding could be. Row after row after row at five miles an hour. How could she have thought it might be fun? It was getting towards eleven when she began obsessing about lunch. Even though she’d munched all the snacks from the cooler, her stomach rumbled like an approaching train. The music pounding through the cab helped the boredom but didn’t do squat for the hunger pangs. She wished she’d packed more in the cooler. Was there at least one of those cardboard-tasting granola bars left? Continuing her slow pace down the row, she reached an arm to the right, flipped open the small insulated bag and rifled through wrappers and napkins. An apple core. A plastic fork.

  She leaned to the left as her fingers found the last peanut butter and honey bar. There was a distant pop and something sharp stung the side of her neck. She slapped her hand at it, yanking off the knit cap in the process. She gasped when she saw that the hat, and her fingers, were crimson with blood. A spider web crack blossomed across the front windshield. The John Deere lurched across the field as she wiped the back of her neck in horror. She twisted around and saw a neat round hole in the back window.

  A bullet. It must’ve just grazed me.

  Adele’s head swung around, her eyes scanning the field. Nothing. She pulled the tractor to a stop and put it in park. Then she looked toward the far ridge. Next to a parked pickup, someone stood there holding a rifle.

  “What the hell? What’s he—”

  As she saw the man raise the rifle to take aim again, she stiffened in horror. Adele threw herself to the floor a fraction of a second too late.

  ___

  Out at the highway, the shooter lowered the rifle. “Oh, God! No, no, no. Not Addy.”

  He swore aloud in disgust and disbelief. Just as the girl turned her head—just after he’d squeezed off the second shot—he’d realized it wasn’t Berg. The knit hat had come off. Damn! She’d been wearing her dad’s knit cap. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!

  He let the rifle drop to the ground and covered his face with his hands. He squinted his eyes shut, seeing the bullet plowing its way through that lovely face in his mind's eye. That sweet, beautiful girl. His stomach roiled. He couldn’t let himself vomit. DNA, he thought. If you can get it from hair, you can sure get DNA from someone’s lost lunch.

  Addy . . . Oh, Addy.

  He should have planned better. His stomach threatened to erupt. He ejected the shell casing and put it into his pocket. Then, looking frantically around, he spotted the first empty casing. He grabbed it and picked up the rifle. He ran to his pickup, jumped in and stomped on the gas. He had to get out of there. As he headed over the hill, his eyes filled, making it difficult to see the road. Without bothering to wipe the tears away, he headed toward town. Reason reasserted itself. Don’t be stupid. Follow the original plan, he thought. He hit the gas. When he got to town, he’d stop in at the gas station on the other side of Main. Then get a cup of coffee from the diner. Make it hard for people to remember just what time he’d stopped by.

  His mind churned into overdrive.

  “Think, you idiot!” he bellowed aloud. “Think!

  He forced himself to be calm. He had to concentrate. He might have killed her later, but he wasn’t prepared to deal with it so soon. And now, his scheme had to be revamped. Totally revamped. His upset stomach threatened to ruin his focus. Glancing at the passenger seat, he saw the fast food sack from his morning run through the Quik Stop. At the time, he thought he could eat, but he’d been so nervous he hadn’t swallowed more than a bite. His stomach did another heave. He pulled the pickup over and stopped on the edge of the gravel road. He snatched the bag and opened it to be met with the nauseating odor of a greasy breakfast burrito.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned. He leaned over the paper sack and retched.

  Chapter One

  Following March - Crooked Creek Resort

  Jessi
e O’Bourne brushed her red hair back from her face, pulled on her knit gloves and gathered her strength. Then she grabbed the handle of the unwieldy hand-truck and dragged it backward. The handcart loaded with paintings threatened to spill as she waded through six-inch deep snow to the service entrance of the majestic Crooked Creek Lodge. The Hawk, her beloved motor home, sat double-parked as close as she’d been able to manage, with her orange tom wailing like a tortured soul in the cat carrier while she unloaded. She couldn’t chance Jack getting loose—and lost—while she took trip after trip into the building.

  Unlike the well-lit, welcoming front entrance of the hotel where she’d checked in, the artists’ parking area remained unplowed. Numerous tracks through the snow testified that many artists had already slogged through the deep snow to carry their paintings and display panels into their reserved rooms—rooms where each painter or sculptor would exhibit for the four days of the annual Crooked Creek Art Expo.

  “Why the heck didn’t they plow and shovel back here?” Jessie grumbled aloud. With the snow still coming down, whoever responsible for snow removal must plan to wait until the heavy white stuff quit falling. Under her breath, she muttered several of Arvid’s favorite four-letter words. Her Norwegian friend, Detective Sergeant Arvid Abrahmsen, from the Sage Bluff, Montana, Sheriff’s Office, had some choice expletives he liked to blame on the Swedes.

  “Drek,” Jessie said aloud, trying out another choice Arvidism. Then her heel caught the edge of the buried sidewalk and she lost her grip on the hand-truck handle. She stumbled, overcompensated for the weight of the cumbersome cart, and tumbled backward into the dirty wet snow, her behind settling squishily into the slush just as she heard the door behind her open with a loud squeak. She swore again.

  “Let me help you.” The voice was amused and deeply masculine.

  End of sample…